Tread Carefully
by thedarkmechanicus
Summary: Outside of the bright spotlight of heroism, is a darkness filled shadow wars, esoteric societies, and things from the stars and beyond our reality plotting. Long before a young boy gained the Omnitrix, one such conflict began in the dark corners of our world. A conflict will twist its way through time and space, drenching blood and spreading madness wherever it travels.


\- Wilson 

I close my cabin door softly behind me and pull down overhead light's cord. My heavy luggage lay upon the tiny bed still unopened. I exhale taking in the pacific northwest landscape. Temperate rainforest bathed in Twilight and the last purple hues of the setting summer sun. Unfortunately, there is no time to take in the scenery passing by. 

I press down on the brass locks, and the suitcase clicks open. I pry beneath the layer of clothes and wrap my fingers around the thick padded cloth and cold metal. I raise the sleek breastplate and shimmering body jacket to glimmer in the warm glow of light fueled by the marvel of electricity. The steel lobster plates made of sandwiched spider and steel can stop hunting rifle round if not two, but far more miraculous are the countless ringlets that I hold between my fingers. Forged from true Damascus steel, it is strong enough to blunt pistol rounds, shield the body from mundane and arcane blades, and most importantly provide a grounding pathway for the etheric power of the electric charge.

I slip into my layers armored pajamas, pulling it over my khaki pants and crisp white shirt. I press my head through its hood and look back down to the case. Beneath the parted clothes four clips of brass lay. I continue fumble beneath a layer of undergarments and pants before managing wrench out the wooden stock. I tenderly press the button upon the wooden block's end and flip open the compartment. I grab the end the handle gently exposing the dull gunmetal pistol to the golden light above. 

I don't dwell on the moment. I lock the stock into the Red Nine's handle and screw the Maxim Silencer onto the tip of the barrel. I lay it down upon bed to tear out my spiked baton, two clips of ammo, and a dull brown trench coat. After affixing the baton to its holster, I greedily stuff clips into the inner pockets of my trench coat before wrapping it around the plate and mail. 

The final piece lies before me: a mask of black iron and ceramic. I press it onto my face and secure the leathery fastener around the back of my head. A series of knocks rattles the door; the pattern is familiar. I snatch the Mauser from the bed and a golfers cap from the luggage. Leaning against the door, I tuck Red Nine under my coat and lay the cap snuggly over my scalp. 

"Dining services. Potted hash is the special," a Scottish accent reverberates from behind the door. 

"I'll have the garlic and herb chicken," I reply. 

"An excellent choice. Would you like some tea?" he responds. 

I slide open the door my eyes are immediately drawn to the glimmering bayonet attached to a dangling trench gun.

Augustus steps off the doorframe into view placing his foot firmly on the green carpet. His armor obscured by a pitch-black trench coat, fiery red hair covered by an armored hood and bowler hat. His dark eyes peer out from the slits in his Damascus steel facemask. 

"Well, you're not one to doddle. I was half expecting to catch you with your trousers still off," he says cheerfully.

"Just slow down for a moment and run the escape plan by me one more time." 

He glances down the halls, before leaning in and whispering, "For the last time, if and only if things go wrong we push forward to car C8, send in mile marker on a wireless signal, detach the cargo segment, and rondevu across the border."

I look down toward my red nine clutching it just a little tighter. Augustus notices my apprehension and nudges me back into my room. He looks over his shoulder cautiously before asking, "What's wrong, getting cold feet? I know this is your first real mission but..." 

"There's are too many things that could go wrong. I mean we don't know what we're even walking into." 

"You can't call it sloppy given the circumstances?" 

"We should at least do some more reconnaissance. Maybe send someone back plainclothes or disguised, you know while the rest of us are on standby." 

"Lad, right now this train is at less than a tenth capacity. In a little more than a half-hour we are pulling into the next station; that means we are going to be flooded with people, and if my memory serves me right you found out at least two of them are confirmed, cult members." 

He pauses glancing back over his shoulder. 

"If they cross the border with all these passengers and guns aboard it's going to be a blood bath. We spent the past two hours keeping a low profile and it got us a lot…" 

He pauses eyes focusing on mine, "… you got us a lot, Wilson. But all our work is going to be worthless if we can't act on it." 

"What about our wildcard in the bar?" 

"Trust my experience, we've had a lot worse wild cards," he says. Augustus pauses to glance over his shoulder this time back in the direction of the other passenger cars. Is he nervous too? 

Augustus's voice returns with the same confident tone, "we'll know when he's coming and he's only one man. Besides, we don't have that bad of blood with the Masons…" 

I glower beneath my mask, "He's more than just a man, and no real bad blood?" 

Augustus takes his hand and pinches at the air between his index finger and thumb, "Don't look at me like I'm daft. We aren't the friendliest, sure, but we can have a conversation. He'll only be a wee bit pissy." 

I take a deep breath. 

"Come on lad, we're The Knight's Eternal. We've got weapons and technology just shy of Buck Rogers. If anything these fanatic's should be worried about the firepower we're bringing to their doorstep." 

I glance back up to him, his dark eyes just seem to glow confidence through the slits in his faceplate. He's right; The Forever Knights always planned for the worst and spared no expense. We were the some first to adopt the wheel lock hand cannons and integrate the secrets of Middle East antiquity as other orders fell to musket fire or the perverse corruption of the occult. We saw value in the Ferguson Rifle upon its inception in times when the crown and the rest of the world thought it was a foolish novelty. And now, while much of the mundane world was still quaking frightfully at electricity, we embraced it's lethal potential, bringing it to heights a pulp novelist would salivate over. 

This only one option and we were prepared. If I don't commit all my energy to this I will hesitate. Second-guesses increase failure by an order of magnitude. I can't risk that. We can't risk that. 

I plant my feet firm. I reply quickly with, "Alright let's go." We're doing this. We're carving a path into and out of the belly of the beast. 

"That's the spirit," he says with a tilt of his head. 

I follow him out onto the pine carpet. We briskly approach Sir Rosewood, Sir Pendleton, and Lord Carter stand in the hallway wrapped in layers of armor and their trench coats. 

Lord Carter's golden mask shimmers with each step as he approaches us. He adjusts his fedora before adjusting his watch and softly says, "Set your watches we have 33 minutes to secure the cars. Standard search operation, use discretion, non-lethal force for non-cultists, and subsonic rounds for firearms until fired upon." 

I nod my head and set the timer on my wrist for 33 minutes. I exhale deeply as it begins to softly tick. 

Carter gives the signal. Rosewood is the first forward checking the hall with his Lanchester machine pistol while Pendleton jogs closely behind lugging around a large metal battery pack with wires snaking up to fat tubular cylinder, one of Nikola's many gifts. 

Augustus and I draw our firearms and advance. Augustus flanks just behind Pendleton's side. Rosewood pulls back making the trio form an arrow cutting through the hallway. I meet with Carter in the center turning to cover behind as he draws his sword. Our arrow deforms around the car exit. 

Carter advances holstering his sword; he swings the door open with his black rubbery right hand and raises simultaneously raises the silver gauntlet on his left hand into the warm late summer air. He crosses the gangplank crossing the gap between the cars and swings open the next door to boxes, crates, and luggage.

"Clear," Carter says taking a step to the side. 

We funnel across the gangplank with me at the head. Despite being the first one across, I turn facing my back to freight car's tin outer shell and look down my sights at the passenger door we emerged from. 

"Clear, fall in," Lord Carter says as he enters into the car behind the others. 

As I turn a dark blur catches the corner of my eye. I swivel back around with the red nine rising only to see the passenger car and indigo sky. I instinctively lean out checking the sides; nothing. Early symptoms of macular degeneration or something supernatural stalking us, either way, it's a bad sign. 

Carter's golden mask greets me upon approaching the door. "Fall in, you're clear," the lord's tone bleeds with annoyance. 

We rapidly cover the car, illuminating the darkness behind every crate marked with everything from engine parts equipment, to tractor blade, to feed, to even pitchforks, fortunately, we don't have to check them all. As we reach the end of the car, the arrow compresses, thins into a line across the gangplank between cars, and reforms into the next room of crates, we travel 2 more cars in the same manner, before reaching the fourth storage container. 

Upon peering through the window of car 1208, Carter gives the signal to hold. Then two more for Rosewood and I remain in the car, while Pendleton and Augustus cross over and tensely stand at Carter's sides. Carter raises his gauntlet and swings open the door. A brilliant flash of blue lightning crackles throughout the darkness and into the freight car.

Carter charges forward into the dark drawing his sword. The rest of the arrowhead funnels across into the store car while I keep peering through the window of the last passenger car. 

I nearly jump as another blotchy shadow streaks across the reflection distorted reflection in the window. I turn only to see Augustus gives me a reverse of the archer's taunts, all clear. I walk briskly across the bridge between the two cars. I search the darkening indigo for any sign of the shadow, but the roof and sides of the car are bare. I close my eyes for a moment trying to search for sound, but the clattering and squealing of the tracks drown out nearly all other sounds.

I enter the room to see a convulsing man upon the ground. He jitters trying to lash out in a painful silent scream as every nerve in his body is flushed with electrical charges. A piece of silver twinkles illuminated by sparks of blue through the darkness. Carter signal's to Rosewood who swiftly walks between the boxes, before cutting the man's convulsions short with the edge of his blade. Carter rotates his wrist and glances down. "Alright, we're twenty-one minutes out, we have three minutes to search," he says coldly. 

As Carter feverishly search's the guard's, everyone disperses throughout the cabin. Rosewood strides toward the back of the car, placing the man's sawed-off shotgun into his coat, "Only one guard. Pretty cocky, if you ask me."

"I advise you don't get cocky, we still have another car to clear, "Carter replies promptly.

"Yeah, for all we know, they're on dinner break," comments Pendelton. 

Rosewood continues to walk and leans against the nearest window peering out into the twilight with his machine pistol ready. Pendleton strikes a similar defensive pose clutching the mighty cannon. Augustus holsters his trench gun and wrenches a crowbar from a rack. He hastily jogs to the nearest exposed crate. 

A series of clinks ring as nails clatter across the metal floor as Augustus cracks the top crate open. He rummages around tossing bits of straw to the side before exclaiming, "Look at what we have here." 

The whole room turns their attention toward Augustus as he reaches into the crate and heaves a Thompson submachine gun and its fifty round drum into the air. He flaunts the weapon around the room in the dusty air. 

He stops his rotation to say, "here Lad." He approaches me, jamming the drum into its place and shoving the gun into my left hand. He turns away and says, "this'll be an improvement over that Jerry pistol," as he walks back toward the open crates. 

I quickly sling the Thomson over my shoulder and jog forward to the rack of crowbars. Carter shoves some papers off the body into his trench coat, before approaching the crowbar rack. 

I snatch the crowbar wrack and jab it into the nearest box. I pry upward cracking open the box to reveal red waxy tubes of dynamite bundled together cushioned by straw. I turn toward another splintery crack; Carter rests the crowbar at the side of the box next to me and pulls out a stick of dynamite. Behind him, Augustus slings a Thomson over his shoulder.

"God, they didn't even try to hide it," I say gawking as he places the explosive back in the crate. 

"Which means they're planning to use it soon. We're lucky nobody shot one of these crates," Lord Carter replies. 

*Crack* 

"Or they wanted it found," Augustus responds as he examines a shotgun from the freshly opened crate.

"Why would they do that?" Lord Carter asks. 

"We knew about two of the cultist's identities, wouldn't surprise me if they knew about us. Maybe this is a decoy train meant for the Mounties to nab, while the real train sneaks by." 

Pendleton finally butts into the conversation, "Don't know bout that, it's a lot of pounds to sink in. Maybe they were rushed and didn't have nough time to hide it. If I was worried the Masons or Skull and Bones was gonna raid me hideout, I'd loaded this up as quickly as possible." 

"That would explain why some of the dynamite is bundled and some of it isn't," I reply. 

"I don't care about what it is, it's a bad omen if I'd ever seen one," Rosewood sighs. He looks up from his window and continues, "My Lord, I suggest we retreat and destroy the weapons now. Rob did you, bring the devices."

"No," Lord Carter responds to Rosewood. 

Rosewood turns away from Pendleton and back toward Carter. "My lord, this is enough to equip two companies. Iit needs to be…" 

Pendleton is quick to interrupt, "Explosives are part of it. If ya can't tell, we're standing on enough TNT bore through a mountain; using the device or lighting a fuse is going to derail the whole train." 

"If things go wrong it'll look better if we have evidence. All this will be a big bust for the Mounted Police and maybe it will enough to get American law enforcement to crack down on them. Besides, we need to restock some of our safe houses," Lord Carter interjects. 

A metallic clang reverberates across the floor. "Oi, does anyone know what this is?" Augustus asks. He proceeds to dip the crowbar's hook inside the jet black barrel scooping out a glob of translucent gel tinted lightly brown. Carter approaches exclaiming, "looks like petroleum jelly of some kind." 

"Why the hell would they want with petrol jelly?" Rosewood asks. 

Carter turns his wrists toward his watch, "We'll examine this later; our four minutes are almost up." 

Augustus lifts the can lid off the steel floor and presses it tightly back onto the barrel with a distinct shlorp. Everyone takes up positions near the door. The door slides open and the Knights cross over to the final car. Rosewood and I hurry to brace our selves against the opposite side of the storage car. 

I lean out to cover glancing over my shoulder as Lord Carter, Pendleton, and Augustus prepare their entry. Car 3008 is different and out of place; a shiny double decker passenger car wedged between the freight and luggage storage. Immediately gunfire erupts and exchanged along with the gift of lethal amperes of electricity as its door is swung open. Rosewood taps me on the shoulder to head back over to the other side of the train to cover the fighting. I'm alone.

I keep my face forward looking intently down the dim hallway of barrels and crates, even as hellish screams are added to the chaotic cracking of electricity and firearms. A cold sweat breaks out across my brow upon the sudden realization that all it takes is one stray round to make me a boiling red smear splattered across twisted metal and cinders.

I take deep breaths waiting, anticipating for that moment for an unfortunate passenger, conductor, or cultist to emerge from the confines of the store car before me. 

I hear a thunderous crash from behind. I glance backward expecting to see the first explosion set off a chain reaction consuming Rosewood and me in an inferno that sends us to oblivion. To my relief car 3008 and 1208 rattle, but nothing. As my eyes drift back to the previous cars, my mind drifts to a horrifying realization, the unkillable man.

Gunfire diminishes behind me but my tension only builds and my heart races. You would have to be deaf not to hear what is going on, and the lost brother is certainly not deaf. My eyes are welded to the door. How many rounds would it take? Would it this machine of death capable of killing 50 men even work against him? Would I even see him if he struck, or would I be sent into darkness by a bullet without ever knowing? 

A nudge of my shoulder by Rosewood tears me away from my terrified trance. I turn my head following the direction he points too. In the doorframe of 3008 Augustus give my signal and gestures to come forward.

I scurry low to the ground across the metal floor and rickety steel gangplank to car 3008. Upon reaching the doorframe Augustus hoists me up by my collar and inside. Before me is a spacious lounge attached to a small bar, not covered with the pine green carpet and trim of gold of the rest of the train, but blood red and stony grey. In addition to the blood splatters - barely distinguishable from the carpet - the train is stained char and cinders. Four bodies litter the room before us. Some are dressed in the attire of waiters, while one is shrouded in the remnants of once grey robes. All of them partially sheltered by the lounges ruined furniture and the bar's island, and all are shredded by shotgun shells or lightly broiled by our artificial lightning. It churns my stomach. 

"You see that bastard over there?" Augustus whispers while pointing toward the bar. All I can see are chunks of meat, splattered blood, broken glass, and splinters. 

"No," I reply squeamishly. 

"That's because the idiot tried to chuck a stick of dynamite at us. Should have thought twice about a blast from my Delilah could do." 

"Augustus, you can brag to your squire about heroics back in the cabins, or preferable when we're off the damned train," a frustrated Carter states in a hushed tone. 

The Lord then goes silent. He gives our signals to Augustus and I and points to the stairs to the second story, and then a similar signal for Pendleton and him before pointing to the door at the very end of the bar. 

Augustus briskly climbs the left stairs as I cautiously follow behind. I sling the Thomson back over my shoulder and draw the red 9. With my nerves on edge, I fear I might not be able to control the Thomson like my pistol or even a hunting rifle. The last thing we need is a stray round hitting my mentor in the middle of a gunfight. With each step, an uncomfortable chill bites deeper through my chainmail and clothing. Augustus slows his pace as we reach the top, cautiously scanning the upper stairwell. He sticks his thumb to the side and wiggles it up: clear. I emerge and methodically take my first steps into the cramped hallway and nearly pinch my nose; the faint odor of formaldehyde drifts into my nozzles. I take in my surroundings; white wooden cabinets, shimmering chrome kitchenware, and barrels, dozens of those black barrels haphazardly crammed together. 

It's so cold up here at least in the 15 maybe even 10 C. I try not to chatter my teeth as I feel heat transfer from my body accelerate as it's drained into conductive increasingly icy chainmail. For a brief moment, the noise in the frigid train kitchen is the chopping and slicing of meat far off to our right. After checking both corners Augustus raises his index finger and points forward hallway parallel with the train's length. 

We softly creep around the barrels in our wake, until we reach the door at the end of the short hallway. Augustus points to the door and then crudely signs, for a silent breach. I wrap my fingers around the icy latch and brace my back against the wall. The door squeaks open as I press down. 

Augustus is the first to lean out, wedging his trench gun through the expanding crack. As the door opens, a soft joyous whistle joins the cleaving of meat. Augustus keeps advancing, before signaling me to advance and cover as he turns the corner. I remain low to the ground concealed by the various cabinets and countertops of the expansive kitchen. My sprightly feet carry my hunched over form toward the edge of a chrome countertop. Lean out and cringe upon seeing the grizzly amount of blood coating the floor. My stomach churns even more as the strengthening stench of formaldehyde mixes with body odor and rotting meat to form a nasty concoction in my nose. I remain strong and steadfast, following the smears of blood as they become coated in thicker layers of a red frost until I finally I feast my eyes upon the source of the whistling. 

The obese man casually cuts and carves deeper into a cadaver before him. He reaches into the body tearing out gory entrails and slicing their stringy connections to the body with his cleaver. Adding more and more stains to the once brilliant chrome countertop. He aloofly chops and hums even as a fresh splash of blood hits his yellowing undershirt and raggedy denim pants. I watch with a fusion of revulsion, fascination, and horror as he feeds the intestines like sausages into a bucket. 

As the obese man exchanges his butcher knife for a bottle at his side, Augustus breaks the disturbing tranquility, "Ya mind if you take a step back and tell us what you're doing Frankenstein?" 

The man slams the bottle down with a dull thud and snaps turning toward us. His hulking belly jiggles beneath the greasy cloth of his undershirt. Beady pupils and irises are surrounded by a sea of luminous white in a pair of vacuous bulging eyes. He stares at us with silent dull exhaustion. 

"Well, ya going to answer us, Arbuckle?" 

"Was preparing for the dinner ceremony," the fat man's says in surprisingly calm eastern seaboard accent. Something is wrong with it though, as if each word is almost choked by his tongue and cheeks. 

"The menu doesn't seem too appealing, does it?" Augustus quips. 

"If this was the food we wouldn't have as many people joining," the fat man chuckles slightly. 

"I like your humor. If you answer my question we'll let ya live. What does this grisly body snatching got to do with this ceremony?" 

"If you want an answer, join us." The fat man replies dully. 

Augustus raises his shotgun, "We plan on..." 

"Join us!" the fat man cuts Agustus short with a bellow and the shattering of a wooden box. A blur of many fast critters leap out from the splintered wood toward Augustus. He responds with a shotgun blast, but, unfortunately, it doesn't get all the objects as one careens into his neck. Augustus lurches backward firing another shotgun blast destroying the light above. 

I rise into the new darkness stabilizing my red nine upon the chrome countertop. I see a look of surprise beam fat man as his head turns toward me. His eyes half immersed in shadow seem to fluoresce an unnatural phosphorous yellow above my crosshairs. I pull the trigger; a flash of fire erupts from my barrel and the clicking of the pistol's loader. A small spurt of blood comes forth as the subsonic round embeds itself in his chest. He stumbles back before bracing himself upon the cadaver. 

He stands back up regaining balance. Eyes now burn with that unnaturally bright yellow. I fire into the man again, but he shrugs it off grabbing his cleaver out of the corpse. Subsonic rounds aren't going to cut it. I frantically reach around my back for the Thomson, only to stumble hesitates as his now booming voice bellows, "Join us!" 

The sharp thin butcher knife flies through the air like a dart. I fall to the floor as it twirl's past my head. When I rise again, the fat man has ducked behind cover. On cue, the room becomes all sounds including Augustus's struggle and huffing of the fat man becomes drowned in the roar of automatic weapons and thunder of the tesla arcs being cast. 

The bleeding fat man leaps up from his cover and barrels through one of the shiny metal kitchen doors. The door swings back behind him blocking the subsonic round bounces off steel with a clink before it can hit him square in his fat neck.

The smashing of pots and pans creeps through the cacophony of gunfire reverberating from below. I turn to see Augustus still struggling in the darkness. I rush over to him peaking back and forth between him and the still swinging door. My mentor stumbles into the light, a disembodied hand claws and struggles to insert its fingers into the slits of his mask. Augustus claws back slowly prying the leathery hand from his mask. It's gangly nails shatter and he flings it across the room. It smacks against a refrigerator. Two fingers twist now broken and shattered, but the remaining digits continue to attempt to drag it across the floor. I turn and with a flash and pop of my red nine the sluggish crippled hand is made still. 

Augustus stumbles over to his shotgun panting. "Are you alright?" I ask. 

"Yeah I'm fine," Augustus responds promptly. "Just a little winded," he says picking Delilah off the ground. He reaches into his pocket and shoves three more shells into the gun's loading tube. As he finishes loading a few metallic clangs pierce through the gunfire below. 

Augustus signals me and points to the doors. I lean onto the side of the doorframe and try and listen in, but the sounds from below are two strong. I glance up to see Augustus raise another signal and then push through the door. As I place my hand on the door I take a step back; the stench of formaldehyde grows increasingly foul with each second.

I take another woozier step back, and the door flies open. I only see a blur of legs covered as worn denim as I narrowly duck to avoid ax the ax. It crashes into the doorframe where my head rested. 

I ignore the shotgun discharges from behind me and I raise my red nine. As I frantically retreat backward, my finger strikes the trigger multiple times unloading bullets wildly into the shirtless man. Thick sludge like blood oozes from the wounds I make through tanned leathery skin of his stomach. Each round caused him to twitch and groan but never falter. On the fourth shot, I realize I'm firing in the wrong spot. His withered concave stomach, now littered holes and together stitches, is hollow, empty, and unimportant. I shift my sights up to his chest his skin looks like it's tightly wrapped around like the skin of a bongo drum, so tight you can see the notches in his ribs. But his arms, legs, and pectoral muscles are not emaciated, they are strong bulging as if new layer of tendon and muscle had been added to them. I continue to fire, and he continues to stumble forward attempting to swing the heavy two-handed axe with a single arm. He continues to advance sends splinters of wood and sparks as it leaves a trail of carnage through the kitchen.

I adjust my aim and fire at his chest. The ribcage erupts with a spurt of blood and he stumbles backward. I pull the trigger again instead of a flash from the barrel, nothing just a click. Once again I reach for my Thomson, but the Axe-wielding maniac recovers heaving. He clumsily lunges and caves the axe down upon me. I trip backing away but catch my fall; unfortunately I'm not fast enough. The axe slices through my trench coat and bites into my shoulder. The force of the blow knocks me to the ground. 

I scramble with the Thomson, but the second strike from the axe knocking my Thomson and I to the floor. I grit my teeth as I hear the gun clatters and slide out of arms reach. I reach into my belt and tear off my trench mace. I struggle to stand and raise the mace to strike, only to look up only to see the undead man with his axe held high above me. He brings the axe swiftly down with the full weight of his body. Its head crashes against my shoulder before I can strike his leg with the spiky cylindrical club of iron. The strike sends ringlets flying into the air. A sharp stinging pain erupts my shoulder as I feel hot blood bubbling up. I grit my teeth and follow through with my strike. His knee buckles, but I wince as the sharp pain catches up to my brain. I spend the precious few seconds I earned clutching my wound and scooting away slowly across the ground. 

But, before the undead man can raise his axe again, the left side of his head explodes into shards of bone and raw bloody flesh. He stumbles, falls, and crashes the floor with a loud thud followed by a final clang of his metal axe.

I turn to see Augustus brandishing his smoking shotgun above. He quickly turns back to the doorway. Between his feet, another one of those Frankenstein monstrosities sprawled out in a pool of thick blood. Its chest is absolutely chewed up by buckshot. I Quickly check my burning shoulder. A gash lay in the chainmail and the skin poking out from beneath it is a thin cut surrounded by splotches of deep dark bruises. Fortunately, the Damascus steel did its job, as the the cut is rather shallow; not the hidious sight of a broken limb or gash tearing muscle and tendon down to white bone. I look back up to Augustus, he doesn't respond with his typical boisterous Scottish voice; instead, he gives a silent hand signal, 'are you alright?' 

I promptly respond with the reverse archer's taunt, and Augustus nods his head before making the signal to enter. I make haste, strapping the red nine to my back, swiping the Thomson from the floor, and sprinting to the door. I push through the kitchen's door with the Thomson tightly clasped while adjusting my body so my good arm faces the unknown in front of me. 

Between the storage room's half-bare shelves, I can see the fat man heaving heavily, desperately attempting to catch his breath. Beads of sweat roll like oil into the lumpy rolls of his skin. His undershirt is sopped with his blood. It's obvious the wounds I dealt are catching up with him. 

Still even as he gasps, he tightly grips a massive cleaver and postures defensively behind a cabinet. His eyes still glow softly in that eerie yellow. He backs deeper into the dim shadows behind a shelf as he catches sight of Augustus. We trapped a rat in a cage, the question is will he lash out or cooperate in desperation? 

I glance over to Augustus steps over another undead body shredded by buckshot with an obliterated head. He projects his voice, "This is your last chance! Tell us what…" 

The eyes of bloated man brighten as he reemerges from his shadowy cover. A strange inhuman cry bellows from behind Augustus. Before he can fully turn, an axe crashes against his back. Augustus stumbles forward, but manages to recover from completely falling to the ground. The corpse with the shrapnel torn chest marches through the door. He holds his axe tightly and raises it high once more. 

I aim the machine pistol between two cans on the shelf and squeeze the trigger; a burst hot lead tears through the undead thrall's shoulder and torso. His arm goes limp and his good arm is barely able to hang onto the axe as gravity pulls it down. The once man stumbles backward giving enough time for Augustus to fully recover. It tries to swing its axe, but only manages to limply drag it across the floor. The shotgun erupts shredding the abomination's chest into hamburger meat and sending it to the floor with a deep garbled cry. The abomination lays upon the floor lifeless once more. 

Augustus stomps over to the corpse with wobbly footsteps and strained heaving that makes it through the echoes of gunfire, shouts, and screams below. He emits a battle cry infused with fury and pain as he jabs the bayonet into the creature's neck. Another thunderous blast sounds; the shotgun rocks back and corpses neck explode gorily ripping its head from its body. 

Augustus turns, still seething. "That hurt ya fat bastard!" he barks. Pure rage radiates from his body with each rise and fall of his shoulders. Before I can intervene he raises Delilah toward the obese man and squeezes the trigger. 

No blast erupts. Augustus heatedly swings the shotgun over his shoulder laughing madly. He wrenches as flail from beneath his overcoat. 

"Augustus wait!" 

He ignores me, made deaf by rage. He barrels forward twirling the weapon in the air and howling with frenzy, "Your going to get yours, filth!" 

He leaps upon the counter swinging the ball and chain arcing downward upon the cowering fat man. It narrowly misses the fat mans blubbery face as he rolls to the side. The fat man rises to hit my mentor with the cleaver but is met with a strike to the lower torso from the ball and chain. I can tell from his agonizing movements a rib has been cracked. He stumbles forward bellowing fowl curses in an ancient tongue. Another nasty strike careens into his shoulder. He buckles droppings the cleaver to the storeroom's floor; he clenches his shattered arm in agony. 

Augustus shoves the flail back into his coat and pulls a glimmering dagger from his leg. He leaps down crashing into the fat man. He twists the butcher's bloody shirt and pushes him against the nearest shelf with his forearm. Augustus brings the knife beneath the man's second chin. 

"Tell me everything now!" Augustus spits in his face. 

The fat man tilts his neck and gags, eyes focusing in terror on the knife now reflecting that phosphorous glow.

"Talk now! I'll make it quick if you do!" 

The fat man opens his mouth as if to speak, but pleas for his life or squeals of the dreadful deeds of his fellow conspirators do not flow forth. Sickly yellow bile flies forth from his mouth, spewing onto August's grey silver mask.

Augustus lurches immediately but it's far too late. He grunts relaxing his grip enough for the wounded man to thrust him to the floor. Quickly his groans of mild pain turn into screams of agony as the sulfuric liquid dribbles through the slits of his masks. 

A brief smile of relief creeps across the man's gluttonous face as he wipes the bile from his mouth. His face quickly to fear as he notices my black Thomson barrel and iron mask. I feel Augustus's rage flow through my veins and nerves into my trigger finger. 

Purifying flame spits forth from my weapon. My battle cry rings throughout the cabin along with the roaring machine pistol. I hold down the trigger watching as dozens of rounds carve up the fat man. The arc of bullets rises up and up spraying blood, fat, and skin into the air. His outstretched hand shatters apart. His neck spews blood from several holes. His plump face is torn apart. 

The gun goes dry and the tattered body slumps to the ground. Shrill shrieks fill the air drowning out the chaos below.

"AHHHHH It burns!" 

I place Thomson and shuffle through the shelves. "Augustus!" I shout. 

I power toward Augustus. He rolls upon the ground. He kicks his legs wildly in the air while clutching his mask squealing "IT BURNS!" 

I quickly kneel by his side and wrench his mask from his face. I am frozen solid by his gaze. 

His once fair skin dotted with freckles is raw now burnt and blistered red. His full square face, strong jaw, and wide nose have been whittled and melted down to frail almost skeletal features. Bright blue eyes turned to white goopy mucus. The roots of his raven black hair are bleached ghost white. His once-booming voice with all its crudeness, confidence, and cheer, is now replaced with the shrill screams terrified child. 

"IT BURNS!" 

"Augustus it's going to be alright. Were going to fix this okay!" I say with a cracking voice. 

He tightly clenches my arms as he screeches to the heavens. I try and look around for something anything that can help, but I am utterly petrified by his agony. I can only watch as his cheeks melt and eyes smoke as he screams. The screams slowly are overtaken by gunfire. I feel his grip slowly loosen around my arm as I try to comfort him and scan my surroundings. The screams soften to a measly squeal, and then to a whisper, and then to a gargle. This can't be happening. Not like this. Not to my master. 

The gunfire below starts to dim. There's still hope, yes. There has to be. Lord Carter and the others must have an elixir or device to save him. Yes, there's still time. 

A shockwave blasts from below knocking me to the floor. I raise my head woozily from the floor, the sound of a metallic clang reverberates outside the kitchen. Clang after clang wallops against the kitchen floors, until I count thirteen reverberating from the other parts of the kitchen. 

I look around storage. Two black barrels stand upright. Their tops lay open and their lids are strewn across the floor.

The faint smell of formaldehyde worms its way back into my nose.


End file.
